


curiosity killed the sam

by koedeza



Series: on a long enough timeline the survival rate for everyone drops to zero [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Weechesters, dean and john are an enigma, no one dies I promise, sam is also curious, sam likes to read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 02:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koedeza/pseuds/koedeza
Summary: While Sam pretends to read his worn copy of The Hobbit on the motel bed, he snatches glances at Dean. He’s sitting across the room with John, hands moving quickly as he talks about something. Every once in a while, John will nod and take a sip of whiskey, writing something down in his fat leather book.Dean sneaks glances at Sam too, like he’s scared of what Sam will hear. Sam’s eyes immediately go back to the page he’s on whenever that happens. This time, it’s Page 80, Riddles in the Dark. Bilbo discovers the invisibility of the ring. Sam has a ring, but he doesn’t use it to hide from people. When he goes invisible it’s so he can try and dig out his family’s secrets.Usually, it doesn’t work.





	curiosity killed the sam

**Author's Note:**

> once again, mediocrity strikes back in the most astounding ways

Sam is seven. **  
**

Everything in his life is a neatly bundled secret, layers upon layers of quiet conversations between his older brother and his dad, had over a beer and a warm glass of coke.

His dad doesn’t try to hide things from him, but Sam still doesn’t know anything which confuses him more than not. Sam can tell from his demeanor, from his expressions, from his hollow eyes. John Winchester can be read like an open book, you just need to know what language it’s written in.

Then there’s Dean. Protective older brother, or whatever.

While Sam pretends to read his worn copy of _The Hobbit_ on the motel bed, he snatches glances at Dean. He’s sitting across the room with John, hands moving quickly as he talks about something. Every once in a while, John will nod and take a sip of whiskey, writing something down in his fat leather book.

Dean sneaks glances at Sam too, like he’s scared of what Sam will hear. Sam’s eyes immediately go back to the page he’s on whenever that happens. This time, it’s Page 80, Riddles in the Dark. Bilbo discovers the invisibility of the ring. Sam has a ring, but he doesn’t use it to hide from people. When he goes invisible it’s so he can try and dig out his family’s secrets.

Usually, it doesn’t work.

**-x-**

At school, Sam doesn’t bother searching for secrets.

He sits with a quiet girl named Tina and a lanky boy called Caleb, and together they draw maps during recess. Sam isn’t terribly creative, but he’s smart with the pencils and rulers, outlines things in a way that makes sense. Tina has an imagination that can whip up worlds better than Tolkien ever could. Caleb has a way with the broken crayons and dried out markers, knows exactly where to lay down color.

They’ve been working on their most recent one for a while, the mountains and oceans and complicated borders turning it into a long project. It’s a gloomy November day when they finally finish.

“I can’t think of a name for this one,” Sam says.

“How about Caleb-Sam-Tina. Calebsamtina. I think it sounds cool.” Caleb says, tongue in between his teeth like it always is. He has a blue crayon in his left hand, ready to write down the name when Sam stops him.

“Wait!”

Caleb’s hand lifts from the poster.

“What does Tina think?” Sam asks. They both turn to look at the girl who’s sitting on the carpet, playing with the pom poms on her jacket.

“We can’t make any more maps.” She says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What?” Caleb asks.

“I’m leaving. My parents are moving us back to China.” She blinks, eyes glassy.

“Oh,” Sam says.

Caleb drops the crayon and sits beside Tina, hand going to hers. Sam does the same.

“It’s ok. We won’t make any more maps without you.” Sam says, and he means it. Caleb looks at Sam weirdly but nods with an unusual resolution not intended for a seven-year-old.

Tina leaves that January, takes the Calebsamtina map with her, and Sam and Caleb never make any more maps.

**-x-**

Dean is angry. Or John is angry. Sam can’t tell, and he’s not in the mood to try and figure it out.

He’s hungry, and the cover of The Hobbit ripped, and his shoes are a size too small and the janky motel they’ve been staying in is cold.

“Sam, get me that big book off the counter,” John calls from across the room, nose buried in the fat leather book. Sam glances at his dad from his spot under the covers and looks back at the TV. 

“No.” He says, burrowing further under the scratchy blankets.

“Sam, I’m not gonna ask you again.”

“I’m cold, get it yourself.” Sam’s ears instantly turn red, and his jaw locks and his armpits prickle with sweat. He thinks John might do something he’ll regret, but instead, he gets up with exhaustion in his eyes and mutters something under his breath, grabbing the pile of books himself.

The motel room bangs open ten minutes later, bringing in cold Minnesota air and a frazzled Dean. His nose and his ears are red, and his teeth are chattering but in his hands is a pizza box. Sam jumps up from under the covers and joins Dean at the table, ravenously reaching for a slice of lukewarm cheese pizza.

Dean is quiet and grumpy and Sam watches with intensifying curiosity as his eyes go colder and colder, hands twitching every time he goes for a slice. Every once in a while Dean will glance at John, and his stare will go unnoticed. Once Dean eats his last slice, he stands up, walks over to where John is.

“I’m twelve today.”

“I said happy birthday.” John doesn’t look up. “Gave you twenty dollars.”

“And you think that’s enough?” Dean’s voice cracks.

“Dammit Dean, I’m doing the best I can.” John slams his glass on the table and stands up, tired eyes suddenly angry.

“Your best sucks! And you know what else sucks? Everything!”

And that’s how it goes, Dean and John yelling at each other from opposite ends of the room, strange words that Sam’s never heard before being thrown around. Things about jobs, and monsters, and settling. Then there are the words that are meant to harm and Sam takes those all in, stores them for future use.

Sam walks to his bed, right in between arguing family members, crawls under the covers, and keeps watching Tom and Jerry reruns on the static TV.

**-x-**

After that argument, Dean changes.

He never complains about their dad’s orders, always does what he’s told, doesn’t talk back. Sam’s beginning to think they’re turning into complete opposites, static where one isn’t, angry when the other is.

Sam’s seven, Dean’s freshly twelve, and John’s age can only be measured by the growing wrinkles on his face when things seemingly hit the fan.

Sam is doing multiplication tables—taking his time because he wants to even though he doesn’t need to—when someone knocks at the door. Sam takes a butter knife from the kitchen counter, peeps through the window, and sees two dark shapes. It’s nighttime, but it’s also Dean and John, so Sam opens the door. They’re covered in something dark and tacky, snow sticking to them like feathers to tar.

“Sam lay down some newspaper.” John’s voice is urgent, rickety.

Sam listens.

He takes the pile of newspapers from the table and spreads them out on the carpet, leading from the doorway to the bathroom. He turns the knob of the shower and warm water spurts out.

John and Dean trek into the motel room and go to the bathroom to peel off their clothes, filling the whole room with the smell of something rotten. They rinse off using the sink and the shower and toss all their clothes into a black trash bag that Sam asks for in reception.

When he comes back, John is gone again, and Dean is sitting on the toilet in a clean set of clothes.

His bare feet are pale against the yellowing bathroom tile, and it’s hard for Sam not to notice the rusty drops that run down his skin. Dean glances at Sam while toweling his hair, eyes cloudy and too hard to read.

Sam just watches apprehensively with his back to the counter, tiny fist still closed around the butter knife.

  **-x-**

“Caleb?”

“Yeah, Sam?”

Since Tina left they’ve picked up a new hobby during recess. It’s too cold to go outside so most kids stay in, but the class is so big that the teacher never notices when they’re missing.

Sam’s hanging from the monkey bars, gloved hands compromising his grip. Caleb pretends to vanquish evil winter spirits with a stick.

“Do you know what blood looks like? Dried blood?” Sam asks, tongue between his teeth. Caleb’s mannerisms have rubbed off on him.

Caleb isn’t fazed by the question, only drops into a lower stance to better angle his attacks with the stick.

“No. Probably darker than red.”

“Sticky?”

“Like tar?”

“Yeah. Sticky, like tar.” It’s the last thing Sam says before he slips from the monkey bars and lands on a patch of ice.

**-x-**

Sam’s seven and sporting a bright red cast on his wrist, when Caleb’s parents decide to take him out of William Douglass Elementary. When he comes to get his things from his desk in the middle of March, he says his parents believe the school doesn’t pay enough attention to him. Sam wants to say that he’s the one who broke his wrist, but this isn’t about him. He does their handshake with his good hand and waves sadly as Caleb gets in his minivan, the dark shadows of some parental figure in the driver’s seat.

 **-x-**  

Dean picks Sam up from school on a foggy April afternoon and his nose is bleeding.

“Who did that to you?” Sam asks as they trudge through the snow to their motel.

“Some idiot in the 8th grade. Kinda had it coming though.” Dean mumbles, the coat sleeve held up to his face muffling his voice.

“You sure it wasn’t whatever you and Dad killed the other day?”

Dean stops short, eyes wide. “What did you say?”

“I’m kidding.”

“Sam.” Dean’s voice is filled with panic. Sam enjoys it for a cruel twisted second and then hates himself for relishing his brother's fear.

“I said I was kidding. You don’t have to worry. I don’t go around telling people stuff.” Then, because Sam knows an easy way to change the subject, he says, “My only friend is gone anyway. I have no one to tell.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but the back of Sam’s throat prickles so he shuts up.

  **-x-**

Sam discovers the library at seven, and instead of wondering what John does to keep his kids fed and clothed, Sam reads books. He reads mysteries, science-fiction, fantasy, whatever he can get his grubby hands on.

No one ever wonders where he is, and it keeps the curiosity at bay.

  **-x-**

 May 2nd.

Sam is eight and when he wakes up there’s something wrapped in a grocery bag on the table, the red ‘thank-you’s the color of the cast that’s long come off. The letters stand out at the front as if he’s done someone a favor by turning a year older. Sam sits down carefully and takes what he already knows is a book out of the bag. It’s not a replacement of The Hobbit, which is the one book his library doesn’t have.

It’s something called _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , and it’s new and shiny. No way in hell Dean or John could afford it. Sam blinks, eyeing the strange cover.

“You could have gotten me a new copy of The Hobbit,” His voice wobbles.

“Read something new for a change Sammy. You’ve read The Hobbit way too many times.” Dean leans back in his chair, crams dry cereal into his mouth with a twisted spoon.

“This is stolen isn’t it?” Sam asks quietly. He lifts up the book, traces his finger over the library check out card he finds glued onto the back.

Dean turns red, swallows, and cracks his jaw but then he keeps on eating like nothing’s happened. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Sam nods, opens the front cover, then closes it abruptly.  “Why this one?”

“I read it in school. The main kid reminded me of you.” Dean reaches over and pours more cereal into Sam’s bowl. “You think that’s enough?”

Sam doesn’t look up, his eyes fixed on the words.

“Yeah. It’s enough.”


End file.
